A Pure Double Cross (27 page)

I slid the glass across the bar. Jimmy lowered his shotgun and approached. I kept my hands where he could see them. Jimmy grabbed the glass and drained it. “Where
am
I gonna shoot you, G-man?”

“I dunno Jimmy, that's your call. But preferably in the foot.”

That coaxed a greasy smile from the old gypsy vampire, which I counted as a personal victory.

“Got any soda water?”

I opened the bottle and set it on the bar. Jimmy poured soda water into his empty glass, dug out his glass eye and plopped it in the tumbler, where it fizzed.

Well. There's something you don't see everyday.

I made my pitch. “Jimmy, you said Henry's always been square with you. Me too, for the most part. I know what I said about the money broker bringing friends and all that but I'm thinking...”

Jimmy triangulated me with his good eye and an empty black socket that looked like a bottomless portal to hell. Any hopes I had of talking him back from the precipice disappeared down that hole.

Jimmy drizzled rum in the glass of soda water, stirred it around with his finger, retrieved his glass eye, polished it on his shirttail and plugged it back in its socket. It was off kilter.

“You got sumpin' to say, say it.”

“Okay.” I crossed my arms and made a face. “You got your eyeball in sideways.”

Jimmy grabbed the bottle of Bacardi, I grabbed the bottle of VO. We trooped up the staircase to the first floor. The door was locked. Jimmy knocked, The Schooler answered.

“I'll take those,” he said. “I need you two halfway sober.”

We surrendered our bottles and followed Henry Voss to the icy kitchen. He had a game of solitaire laid out on the round table. He placed the hooch bottles on a nearby counter where we could see them, a very mean thing to do.

“What did you two talk about down there?”

“Well, I said that, despite our past differences, we had to link arms and pull together to get through this thing.”

“And Jimmy agreed with you?”

Jimmy had a Lucky out, lit and in his maw in the time it took to turn my head in his direction. Cigarette smoke is blue when lit and gray when exhaled I noted absent-mindedly.

“Yeah I did,” said Jimmy with a squint. “I told the G-man I'd keep an eye out for him.”

This bit of drollery from Jimmy Streets was so unexpected that it took The Schooler and me a moment to take it in. Then we shared a hearty guffaw. Jimmy didn't join in exactly but he did snort smoke at short intervals.

The Schooler scooped up his game of solitaire and handed me the deck of cards. “Maybe you'll have better luck.”

A thought occurred. I needed a way to kill the afternoon while keeping Jimmy's mind off his twelve gauge. I sat down and shuffled. “Seven card anyone?”

Jimmy grabbed a box of kitchen matches off the wood burning stove and dumped them on the table. “You in?”

The Schooler shook his head. “Five card then,” said Jimmy, divvying up the matches.

Two-hand, five card, now there's some excitement. Raking in a two dollar pot with a pair of treys. “What stakes?”

“Hundred dollar minimum,” said Jimmy, pushing a stack of matches my way. “We'll settle up later.”

Uh huh. The only settling up later we'd do would be at the point of a gun. But the high stakes were good, it meant Jimmy took this as his last chance to add insult to injury, to demonstrate how all-fired smart he was before he blew my head off.

Fine. Jimmy would concentrate on bulldozing me off the table while I cursed my luck and waited for the right moment.

I pushed out a hundred dollar ante and dealt one down to Jimmy, one down to me, one up to Jimmy, one up to me. I'm an indifferent poker player, I enjoy the banter around the table more than I do the game. No doubt Jimmy was just the opposite. He peered at his hole card as if it contained atomic secrets.

Killing Jimmy and The Schooler was the percentage play of course. A .32 is plenty lethal at close range. But this wasn't war, this was commerce. And I had enough blood on my hands. I would have to conk Jimmy out, then hold The Schooler at gunpoint. And there would be no going back inside once I backed out the door with three blocks of hundreds.

Tough shit. Were it humanly possible, Jeannie would be waiting nearby that caved-in garage at five-thirty p.m. Me too. I wasn't going to leave her hanging this time.

Jimmy had a queen of diamonds showing. I had a four of hearts. His bet. He pushed another hundred dollar matchstick into the pot. I saw Jimmy's hundred and raised him one. He hesitated, staring at my four. Poker is a simple game, the only thing that makes it interesting is the bluff. And I had nothing to lose but matchsticks.

I dealt an eight of spades to Jimmy and a queen to myself. “An Ada from Decatur and a bitch of hearts.” I'm no good at poker but I know the lingo.

I checked my watch. 1:38 p.m. Way too early. Time to put my pride in my back pocket and lose a few hands. I wanted Jimmy sitting back and relaxed for now, head down and hunched over later on.

Jimmy was a good poker player, I didn't have to try very hard to lose. Okay, I didn't have to try at all. I ran out of wooden matchsticks at one point. Jimmy dredged up a soggy match-book and tossed it over. I tore out the paper matches and piled them in front of me. Jimmy had taken the winner's habit of high stacking his chips one annoying bit further. He had built a long cabin with his wooden matches.

Time passed quickly. The next time I checked my watch it was 4:51. Time for Mr. Jimmy to bend to the task at hand, bend down nice and low. The Schooler was sitting off to the side, buffing his nails with an emery board if you can believe that. Riding herd on his itchy young men.

“Okay Jimmy, I concede. You're the king of five card. Now how ‘bout some Down the River?”

“Suit yourself.”

I shuffled up the deck. Jimmy cut the cards. We hadn't set any maximum on wagers. My plan was to bluff Jimmy into submission. Down the River, with three hole cards, makes a bluff harder to detect. I slid another glance at my watch. 4:56.

I looked up. Jimmy was waiting on me.

I anted up and dealt. Two down, followed by one up, high card bets first. Jimmy had an ace of diamonds. I had a nine of clubs.

Jimmy had only two facial expressions, bored and angry. Bored was bored and angry covered everything else, from defeat to elation. Jimmy looked bored as he checked his hole cards.

I hiked my eyebrows as I looked at mine. He bet a hundred off his ace. I threw in two soggy matches. Jimmy called, I dealt him the two of hearts. “Deuceball.” I dealt myself the four of clubs. “The devil's bedposts.”

Jimmy bet one hundred, I bet three. I hadn't bluffed him all afternoon, not seriously. My bet said I had two clubs in the hole to go with my two showing. A five-card flush is a dead lock in a two-man game. I didn't have any clubs in the hole but that was beside the point.

Jimmy called my bet. I dealt two more. A six of spades to Jimmy, a queen of spades to me.

Well now, a face card. Could be I had three of a kind. One up, two in the hole. I waited on Jimmy's bet.

One hundred. I called and raised him three. Jimmy carefully removed the top matchstick from each wall of his log cabin. I dealt two more. Five of diamonds, seven of hearts. No obvious help to either faction. I kept a calm and confident demeanor. This bet would be my last chance to bluff Jimmy off the table before the final hole card showdown.

Jimmy looked at his cards, looked at my cards, looked at me and checked. Give him credit. Only Jimmy Streets could make the harmless ritual of tapping the table look like a death threat.

I pushed all ten remaining paper matches into the pot. I kept a calm and confident demeanor. Jimmy, legs still stretched out under the table, counted out ten matchsticks.

This contest of wills was completely stupid of course. I would have a perfectly good opportunity to crease Jimmy's skull if he leaned forward to gather up the pot. But I didn't want that to be Jimmy's parting memory of Hal Schroeder.

“Bring it here,” said Jimmy.

I dealt. One down to him, one down to me. We peeped our hole cards. I had drawn another four. I had two grand on the table and a pair of fours to back it up.

Jimmy didn't have much showing but he didn't need much. Almost anything beats a pair of fours in seven card. Provided you're willing to pay to see them.

“I need another pack of matches.”

The Schooler handed me a small waterproof cylinder with a screw top and said, “We need to wrap this up.”

Uh oh. That meant the money broker was due soon. I un-screwed the cylinder and dumped six long gold-tipped matches on the table. “There they are, my five hundred dollar chips.”

Jimmy tapped the table. I took my time rolling out the gold-tipped matches, all six of them. Would Jimmy call a $3000 bet?

Yes he would.

I reached my right hand into my gun pocket, slid my finger through the trigger guard, behind the trigger, and got nervous. A .32 revolver wasn't much of a cudgel against Jimmy's thick skull. The butt was hollow, better to use the cylinder, smash it into his temple. If that didn't take I'd have to shoot him. There wouldn't be time to subdue Jimmy while The Schooler dug for his Beretta.

I leaned forward. I used my left hand to turn over my hole cards and expose my puny fours.

Jimmy surveyed my hand for the longest time. He looked perplexed, defeated. Angry. But, despite my silent pleadings, he didn't lean forward.
Dammit.

Then he did something unexpected. Jimmy threw his hole cards down on the table, grabbed the bottle of rum off the counter and stormed out the front door.

Guess I wasn't the only one bluffing.

I gathered up the cards. If The Schooler followed Jimmy out to the lake I could grab my dib and escape out the basement window.

But Henry Voss didn't co-operate. Best he did was stand on the snowy porch and call after Jimmy.

I glanced down as I absent-mindedly gathered up the deck. A tiny alarm bell sounded in the lower chambers of my skull.

“Jimmy won't stay away long,” said The Schooler as he closed the front door. “Not if he knows what's good for him.”

“That's the question, isn't it?” I said, still at the kitchen table, shuffling the deck of cards into order. I put the cards down and crossed to the parlor.

“I insulted Jimmy, tried to chump him. If I walk away in one piece with my fair share, Jimmy loses. And Jimmy can't lose.”

“Jimmy has worked for me since he was ten years old, I raised him from a pup. He'll come around.”

Such paternal concern. Such filial devotion. Of course it hadn't kept Jimmy and Henry from selling each other down the river when given the chance but, still, it was a sweet and tender thing.

“Maybe he won't shoot
you.
But soon as Jimmy gets his dib he's in a duck blind and I'm a redwing mallard.” The Schooler didn't argue the point. “Which is why I would like to take my share and go.”

“I can't let you do that.”

I yanked my .32.

The Schooler looked disappointed at this crude breach of etiquette. “You'll freeze to death out there,” he said after a time.

“Hell, I'm freezing to death in here!”

The Schooler laughed his mirthless laugh.
Heh heh heh.
I felt a pang for the old gent, decided to throw him a bone.

“I'll take whatever dib you say is mine.”

Two hundred and fifty was his answer.

“Done.” I backed up to the wall of money and removed two blocks of hundreds and one block of fifties, keeping my gun leveled. Henry Voss made no move for his Beretta. Gunplay wasn't his strong suit, guilt was. I felt a complete shit while collecting fifty grand less than I thought I deserved.

“You going out that rear window you broke?”

I nodded. The old man didn't miss much. He opened the door to the basement. I grabbed up an army blanket. He wished me luck. I took the steep stairs one at a time. Henry Voss locked the door behind me.

I made my way across the basement, one quarter of a million dollars clutched to my chest, the half-empty bottles winking at me from the old walnut bar. I used my blocks of cash to bust out the jagged shards of the rear window but I needed a satchel to hide my loot.

I searched behind the bar, I searched the little room. Not even a paper bag. I eyed the big tackle box, dumped the contents on the floor and crammed the cash inside. It didn't want to fit, I had to sit on the box lid to snap it shut.

Hip waders, right in front of me on the cedar chest. Perfect. I sat down and pulled them on over my bedroom slippers.

I climbed out the open window with a minute to spare, 5:29 p.m. I crunched through the snowfall, a swashbuckling figure in thigh-high rubber boots, two-days' growth and an army blanket shawl. Jeannie would swoon at the sight of me. I hid myself on the far side of the garage. I set down the tackle box and shivered and stamped my feet and kept a lookout.

Had Jimmy got wind of my call to Jeannie somehow, used the poker game as a pretext to storm out and intercept her? Nah, there was no way he could know she was coming. No way in hell.

When I checked my watch again it was 5:44.

I would give Jeannie ten minutes more, I thought, then had a good laugh at myself. And just where do you intend to go once
those ten minutes have expired, Mr. Schroeder? I considered my options. That killed two seconds.

I looked down the road, hopefully, unseeing. It was dark now, and the snow was coming down like sleet.

I eyed the dubious shelter of the caved-in garage. It was then I heard the distant thrum of a twin-engine airplane. Had to be the money broker, he was due.

I stood there in abject misery for another five minutes. In that time the twin-engine circled high overhead and dipped its wings. It was all white, pontoons under the wings, not an airplane I knew the name of. It droned away and droned back, on approach for a landing on the frozen lake.